


we are such stuff as dreams are made on

by orphan_account



Series: et tu, brute? [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Gen, WOW....what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:39:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most street gang members come from homes without a good father figure and an absent mother. Big and shifting family units are also a common trend with street gang members.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are such stuff as dreams are made on

New York City was crushingly awful. Buildings spiraling upwards, lights flashing with bright reds and yellows and blues, people rushing to and from. It was easy to get lost and drowned in the city; it was easy to become just another member of the crowd. His mother’s hand gripped his fingers blue and purple as they walked through the streets and through the bad parts of town. Hoots and hollers from the men on the stoops as they catcalled her, “the half-blood is lookin’ for you, darling! Says you can’t keep _his son_ from him!” The memories are muddled things lots of days he can’t exactly remember. Maybe he would have turned out different had he understood what was happening and why.

Family ties were small in his house. Three older siblings he only vaguely remembers, none of them with the same father as him. Ray was the outsider of the four, the one without the same father. Their father was in jail on murder charges. At five years old he was well aware of the difference between his siblings and him, _he_ was lighter than them, _he_ didn’t know Spanish like them and spoke it only sort of well, _his_ father was outside the prison walls, _his_ father was the one causing their mother to spend nights up with 911 on speed dial, _his_ father was the one who had forced her to begin homeschooling the others in fear of what might happen otherwise.

That kind of stigma stuck with you, 20 years later and Ray hasn’t spoken to or seen them once. He hasn’t seen his mother in 20 years either, but she died that year, so it’s different. Her grave is in a meager little graveyard just outside New York City. She would have wanted to go back to Puerto Rico but that was too much for that side of the family to afford. The other kids went someplace, Ray wouldn’t know, he went with his dad.

His dad was a staggeringly strong man. Kingpin of a street gang in the Bronx and the most feared of the locals, he had been a force of negativity Ray’s mother had wished out of his life. For all that he knew that woman she had loved him and told him he was as important to her as the other three. Words that he still looks back on fondly and sometimes sheds a tear over. His father was half Puerto Rican and half German. His reach was beyond New York and stretched around at least four other states, when he had picked up Ray after the funeral he had clapped a hand on his shoulder and offered a small smile. “This is where your life begins, son.” He had said, his smile growing a little brighter. “My mom just died.” Ray replied, his voice stumbling pathetically, he was only five. This was too much. He had never met his father like this, without lawyers or gangbangers around them, where were they going?

“New Jersey is fun, you’ll like it. Just like New York but without the suffocation and heavy police enforcement,” his father’s voice filled the silent truck again after half an hour on the road. “We’re going down to the rest of the family you’ll like them, too. They’re not…they’re lighter than us, though.” Ray’s hands shook, so he sat on them. Gaze catching that movement, his father only offered another small smile. This man had no idea how to comfort someone. He only knew two emotions, anger and coldness. Ray’s stomach twisted uncomfortably and he swallowed a rise of bile as he thought of the people he was leaving behind. The entire building of people had been his friend. He was leaving his family behind; even the wretched part of him ached at the loss of his three siblings. The biggest hole, though, was in his chest. It felt like it was caving in. His panic and guilt and melancholy all washed through that hole in his chest. It wouldn’t leave him for years; it still tore open when he got too over his head.

Michael Jones was his half-brother. They looked a lot alike. Ray’s skin color and hair was darker, but their eyes were the same shade of brown. At some point in their relationship they started mimicking hair styles; they had the same part and the same sweep. Michael’s hair was tinted red, his mother’s Irish genes running over the Puerto Rican blood in his veins. He was only a small part Puerto Rican, so it made sense. He had some siblings, none that he cared about too much. Once Ray had showed up at their door Michael knew he found the sibling he would be close to. Ray had been the baby of his family; Michael had always been the middle kid.

(“Red-headed middle child,” his older sister had laughed at him.)

Their exploits in that grimy New Jersey town shaped them. Their father pushed them into their gang jobs, Ray becoming proficient in long-ranged weapons, becoming a good fighter, having all the skills. Michael was tough, his anger propelled him forward, heavy weapons, bombs, brawling. At 15, Ray was already better than almost everyone else in the gang. Michael, much the same. The age difference got to them sometimes, Ray had been held back a year, and had only entered high school when Michael was about to leave it. Not his fault, he had gotten to New Jersey too late to join the kindergarten class. They never had any trouble or bullying, mainly because they already had a reputation.

Ray was 18, Michael was 21. Michael had bought a ton of alcohol (for himself, Ray didn’t drink,) and Ray had drove them out of the state and into New York. They didn’t even show up for Ray’s graduation, they could get the certificate some other time. Not like Ray couldn’t bribe his way into any college he wanted anyway. Michael had continued the gangbanger life-style; Ray never said anything about it. In New York traffic on a sweltering night, Michael’s head leaned back on the seat of the Ray’s Range Rover. His breath smelled of the alcohol he was intoxicated on and his eyes were slipping closed. Ray drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling the urge to sit on his hands. Heaving a sigh, Michael shifted so he could squeeze Ray’s bicep. “What’s up, man?” Michael croaked, his voice slow and lazy. It had an underlying tone of concern, though.

“What are we going to do now? Stay in New Jersey?” Ray’s voice had never truly lost the small New York lilt, even after all those years in New Jersey. Michael’s eyes closed, and he was silent for a long time. Ray was certain he had fallen asleep, until he let out another sigh. “We both hate the old man, why’d we ever stay in New Jersey if he’s there? You’re legal now. We can do whatever the fuck we want.” Michael said it loudly, letting it fill the empty space of the vehicle. Those moments of silence had been him collecting his anger, Ray realized. That statement sat for a little bit, Ray processing it through his brain and rolling it around his mouth. Seeing how it fit. “I can’t come near New York again,” Ray finally concluded. Michael’s eyes opened, his face contorted in a moment of confusion.

“Alright.” Michael said, sitting up and tightening his fingers around another beer bottle. Ray’s breath hitched then, maybe Michael had heard the note of desperation in his voice, or saw his white knuckles on the steering wheel, but he had just given Ray all that he wanted to hear. Michael’s jaw worked and he let the bottle slide back into the container. “Find someplace to pull over,” sometimes whenever Ray felt his stomach bubble uncomfortably and the gap in his chest collapse he needed a strong hand to get him back to functioning. Michael’s voice had been loud again, commanding. Nodding, Ray scanned along the road they were on, and a few minutes later they were in a parking garage, the dark incasing them. It was awkward here, the Range Rover had plenty of room, but it was dark and the cabin had bottles and trash strewn haphazardly around. In trying to move over enough to pull Ray into a hug Michael’s hand hit a bottle just right for it to slide under his hand so he ended up head-butting Ray’s arm.

Ray snorted, Michael laughed a honk of a laugh, they both really dissolved then. Bending so his forehead was against the steering wheel, Ray smiled. This was home to him, not New York, not this fucking Range Rover, not New Jersey, but being able to laugh with Michael. His cracker half-brother with a temper that could make Hell look cold and a toothy grin that sent chills down even the toughest of gangster’s spines.

Ray was 21, Michael was 24. Los Santos was a great city. Shitty cops, complete opposite side of the country, close to the border, really, it was Crime Haven. They had carved out their own little corner of town to call their own. Various gangs and mobs and triads shifted for space here, and it was fluid. The biggest gang was run by some bumbling southern couple. Or, Ray thought they were a couple. Who knows, they didn’t take territory from them anyway. Michael was supposed to be here already, they had just gone in to one of the drug dealer’s homes under their protection to get their money. Ray had been on a roof with his sniper observing the situation. Michael had gone in and left afterwards, giving the signal for Ray to get on his motorbike and wait in the designated alley for him. It had been 30 minutes now, and worry was eating at his stomach.

His loud steps announced him, when Michael was angry he displayed it in everything he did. Ray turned to glance back at him; Michael’s lips were twisted in a snarl, his fists trembling at his side. Furrowing his eyebrows, Ray got completely off his bike and stretched a hand out. “What happened?” He questioned. Michael rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air, turning slightly so he could pace back and forth in front of Ray. “What _didn’t_ happen? They fucking waited until long after I had already given you the goddamn signal! Not the drug dealers, they’re pussies, the Southern pieces of shit.” Michael’s voice was only getting louder and louder, practically foaming at the mouth. He wasn’t making much sense, the Southern pieces of shit were probably the couple, and why they sought Michael out was a mystery. “And?” Ray prompted.

Michael sighed and raked a hand through his hair, turning to Ray and shrugging a little. “They just fucking told me to watch my back. Didn’t even say anything about you. Maybe they’re gonna try and come to you while you’re alone or something. I don’t fucking know.” Michael’s voice was still hard, but he was calm enough to settle onto the bike. Ray frowned and stared at the seat of the bike, still standing beside it. “Think they mean harm? Why should we watch our back?” Ray asked, left hand drumming against the handle bar. Michael sighed and gestured to the seat in front of him. “Talk and drive.”

A few blocks later Michael leans forward and raises his voice to be heard over the wind. “I’ll try and pull stuff out of our contacts, can’t be too fucking hard to get something on those two.” Ray nodded, it sounded good enough.

Michael’s right hand was curled into the sniper bag and his left was on one of the handles on the bike. It was a casual pose, but he could keep his balance easily as well. Until, at least, they started getting followed. Ray caught the truck out of the corner of his eye when he made a turn, and immediately pushed the bike hard. Flailing, Michael’s arms wrapped around Ray’s stomach to press him against the bag. “What the _fuck_ , man!” His words were ripped away with the wind and the pop of a gun going off and spraying the pavement where they just were. On a motorcycle it was hard to handle everything. Michael had his pistol out and one arm wrapped sturdily around Ray while he was half-turned to get a look at the people following them.

Tinted windows, too tinted, couldn’t see a fucking thing through them. They never bothered to lift themselves out the window to shoot either, just held the gun out the window. Ray was mumbling the word ‘fuck’ over and over again, desperately trying to control the bike. Michael was missing every shot, but the bike was also weaving back and forth so it wasn’t _really_ his fault.

And then their luck ran out.

A bullet struck the back tire just right to spin them out of control. Ray grunted and shouted something that Michael didn’t catch, and then they were skidding across the ground. In the movies whenever people crash their bikes you never see the absolute horror the road does to you. Michael rolled into the curb, but both the knees and shins on his jeans were rubbed completely gone, and the skin, if it wasn’t a nasty raw looking red, was oozing blood. Ray looked to be in worse shape though, he had slid the entire way, his forearms looked rubbed completely off and his sniper components were underneath his back in a truly uncomfortable position. His shirt was torn, his jeans were torn, and Michael didn’t even know where Ray’s jacket was. Grunting and stumbling to his feet, Michael lurched over to Ray and grabbed his shoulders to pull him up. Another CRUNCH pulled Michael’s attention back to the vehicle that had been following them, it had been absolutely t-boned to Hell. He was about to send up a prayer to whatever deity decided to save their sinful asses when the window of the truck that had t-boned the other one rolled down. It was the goddamn Southerner woman. Goddamn. This what they meant? Michael didn’t want to stick around and find out.

Ray was making little mumbling noises like he was trying to tell Michael something. Ever since the crash Michael’s ears had been ringing and straining to hear whatever things Ray had to say was out of the question. They were going through a long back way to their nearest safe house. It would take another 20 minute walk to get them there, but it was the closest on foot and not on the street.

“Fucking—boneheaded…not…” Ray raised his voice for that scrambled thought process, and Michael released he was probably also dealing with a concussed Ray. Not only was he half dragging him, but he would probably have to stay up all night with him.

The rest of the walk was uneventful, Michael had to stop multiple times to rest, but Ray had just kept mumbling to himself. From the moment they were in the safe house Michael began treating the wounds. These were some real fucking awful wounds. Ray’s forearms were completely torn to shreds, his hip was fucked up, he had a probably concussion, and his back looked fucked up from landing hard on the sniper equipment. Michael’s wounds were much more manageable, so Ray got first treatment. Bandaging them all up, he listened passively to Ray’s babbling. Stuff about siblings and gangbangers on stoops and he kept repeating the word half-blood, which was slightly alarming, but overall wasn’t too unbearable. Stewing underneath his skin though was his anger. He was practically seeing red around the edges with how much rage was coursing through him.

Clearly, Ray was not too out of it, though. His hand landed square on top of Michael’s head, and he made a sympathetic sound. “Calm down, we’re alive, we’re still good.” Ray slurred out, and then he smiled a little. Michael narrowed his eyes, but let himself relax a little. He was sat on the floor and checking to make sure Ray’s shins and knees were good before getting started on his own legs. “You’re…smart. Don’t throw it out with anger.” Ray continued, as if what he said before hadn’t been a complete statement. “Stop worrying about me; take care of your shins.” Ray finished, sliding off the couch and onto the floor next to Michael. His arms slid around Michael’s chest to squeeze a hug out of him. Michael sighed and leaned forward to start cleaning his legs.

Ray’s arms never loosened, so he worked through it. It was kind of touching, really, to have this much concern ladled onto him.

That night, they watched some shitty action films and pointed out all the things that would kill, or at least severally injure, them and would hurt like hell. They also promised to try and use more cars as getaway vehicles. Bikes hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> wow! this seems weird and very au of an au-ish, haha. this is kind of just a think piece for me to get a feel of characters before my BIG au fic!  
> some things: 1. i couldn't remember if michael was irish or not, i made him irish. 2. since on gta ray and michael are team twins i thought it was cool to actually make them related 3. my designs and headcanon looks for these two dudes come mostly from http://mrpinstripesuit.tumblr.com/post/87999298015/team-lads-and-team-gents-gta5-avatars-dang-i-love but i might put more of my own spin on them! 4. this is unbetaed rip, probably some stupid mistakes, i apologize!


End file.
